


Ignorance Is Bliss (That’s What the Chantry Kept Telling Me, Anyway)

by bluephoenix1347



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/F, F/M, Gen, Modern Girl in Thedas, Modern Thedas, Slow Burn, So sorry this keeps changing, slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-01-25 21:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12541800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluephoenix1347/pseuds/bluephoenix1347
Summary: Freya Cousland is thrown back in time to the Dragon Age of Thedas, where she meets her ancestors as well as a host of other inquisitive persons. She’s about to find out that medieval life is much more difficult than LARPing would have her believe.





	1. The Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> A special thank you to Aurlana/Aurlyn for inspiring me to write this fic, and to K and M for getting me to actually do it. You guys are amazing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya is a private detective, hired to find an old magical amulet for the Denerim Historical Society. 
> 
> This does not go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 11/13: Typo fixes! Yay!

Her footsteps echoed against the upper ballroom floor, a steady rhythm against the chatter of the crowd. A hand went up to brush a stray wave of light brown hair behind her ear, surreptitiously activating a small earpiece on her way. A crisp voice funneled into her head.

 _“You got eyes on the target?”_ it asked.

“Yup.”

_“Andraste’s flaming knickers, yeah. Let’s get this party started.”_

She smiled to herself. “We have to be quiet, Trevelyan. Also, that’s not how that goes.”

_“You know you love me, Fray.”_

She hummed a few notes of music under her breath, a code for Kate to stop talking.

Then the target—a lithe, pale, blond man in his early twenties lurking at the fringes of the party—disappeared. Freya hadn’t even blinked, and he was gone. It was like a missing cartoon frame, a strip of film with too little exposure.

“Kate?” Freya said, a little too loudly. “Did you see that?”

_“Yeah. Think he’s a spirit?”_

“Or a demon,” Freya said automatically, then bit her tongue. Using the d-word in a public place while seemingly talking to herself was never a good idea. Especially in Denerim’s palace, the historical seat of power in Ferelden.  

 _“You search the vestibule, I get the ballroom?”_ Kate suggested, but Freya was already walking toward a balcony. Its doors were closed, and no one paid it any attention. Something felt off, and years of experience as a private detective told her always to trust her feelings. They were usually right.

Sure enough, when she pushed the door open, the man was standing there, his back to her, wearing completely different clothes. They looked almost medieval; brown pants and boots, a patchwork tunic and a wide-brimmed hat. _Definitely_ a spirit.

He turned around. His eyes were the kind of blue you only saw in movies.

“Hello, Freya Cousland,” he said.

She nearly panicked. “How do you know my name? How do you know my _last_ name? Who are you?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” From out of thin air, he produced the item she’d been hired to find.

“The amulet,” she couldn’t help but say. “How do you have that?” There were so many questions running through her mind—that wasn’t even the half of them.

He smiled, almost warmly, and held it out to her. “Here. Take it. I don’t mind.”

Freya eyed him warily, but reached out a hand, carefully letting it pool in her palm. He looked eerily familiar, like she’d seen him before. But that couldn’t be possible. He was a spirit, or a demon, and although Freya was a mage, he didn’t seem like any she’d encountered before. . . .

The doors behind her slammed shut, a fierce crackling piercing the air as green light began pouring from her hand.

Freya did panic this time, jumping back and dropping the amulet with a yelp. It stayed where her hand had been, levitating in the air. The museum had said it had once had magical properties. They had also assured her it was dormant. She didn’t have time to think about how annoying it was when her clients gave her bad intel because a giant _hole_ had materialized in the fabric of reality. One had not been seen in Thedas for at least three Ages, maybe four if you counted Dragon. But here Freya was, terrified, standing in front of the first Fade rift in five hundred years.  

“Freya,” the man said. She had completely forgotten he was standing there. If he was a spirit, her gun would be useless, and magic could just make him—it—angry. She tried to signal Kate through her earpiece, but it was nothing but static.

“It’ll be all right,” the spirit said. “I’m here to help.”

The green vortex was getting bigger. She needed to find a way to get it to _not_ . She pulled her gun, cocking it back and pointing it at the amulet, feeling distinctly stupid. _When all else fails. . . ._

She pulled the trigger, and the world turned green.


	2. The Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair hates Fade rifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE DO NOT KILL ME FOR CHANGING THIS AGAIN.

Alistair really hated Fade rifts.

Drawing his sword, he got ready for the inevitable wave of demons. He’d encountered rifts like this one before, but hadn’t figured out a way to close them.

 _If only Lorell were here,_ he thought, then chuckled. The whole world wished Lorell Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, were here. Not even Alistair knew precisely where she was, and they were married. He didn’t even know if she was alive. She could be lying dead somewhere, body cold and those beautiful blue-green eyes staring sightlessly into the sky, mouth opened as she tried with her last breath to whisper his na—

Sometimes Alistair hated his imagination.

Then a woman, broad-shouldered and brown-haired, spewed out from the rift, which flashed a blinding green. Alistair covered his eyes with his shield.

When he lowered it, the rift was gone.

_What?_

The woman wasn’t moving, just lying there, facedown in the grass. Alistair inched forward, heart pounding. She could have been a demon, in disguise. But that didn’t make sense—they weren’t in the Fade. Unless they were, which would have meant Alistair was dreaming. But if he was dreaming, Lorell would have appeared by now, and he’d probably be in his underwear. Or, not in his underwear, and somewhere distinctly less dangerous. No. This was definitely real, which meant so was she.

Alistair had heard about the Herald of Andraste, Hansen Trevelyan, falling out of a Fade rift. But in all those tales, Hansen Trevelyan had been dark-skinned, conventionally attractive with black hair and a slim build, not light-skinned, a little wider than most, and with light brown hair. Oh, not to mention Hansen Trevelyan was a man, and this woman was decidedly female.

She stirred, attempting to lift herself up with her left arm. It buckled under her weight, twisting in a way that was sickening. A bloody piece of bone had broken the skin. He didn’t think demons got compound fractures, so he knelt at her side, helping ease her onto her back. When he saw her face, a chill spread through him. There was an odd familiarity to her face, like he’d seen her before, but he was positive he hadn’t. He pushed that aside in favor of tending to her wrist. He tried to lift it, but she grabbed his with her other hand, grip like iron, eyes boring into his. Those eyes. How did he know those eyes?

“I’m trying to help you,” he said. “Your wrist is broken.”

“Is it?” Her accent was very Fereldan, and there was humor in her eyes, although they were glazed.

Alistair nodded toward her mess of a hand.

She cursed, letting go of his arm. “It hurts. A lot. Wait. Where am I? Who are you? Is this a forest?”

Alistair’s mind raced to track her questions. “You’re in the Frostback Mountains, I’m Alistair, and yes, this is a forest.” He took her wrist in both hands. “I’ve got to set it. On three One, two—”

He set it on two, and she howled.

The woman took a deep breath, collecting herself. “Okay. Okay. First broken bone ever, and it’s set in a forest by. . . .” She looked him up and down. “Why are you wearing armor?”

“I could ask why you aren’t,” Alistair countered. “But I won’t, because you’re bleeding.” He tore his glove off with his teeth and ripped a piece of cloth from his shirtsleeve, tying it as best he could around her wrist. It immediately soaked through with blood.

“I need a—healer, or something,” she said.

“Yes, you do.” Alistair carefully got her to her feet and slung her non-broken arm over his shoulder. “There’s a settlement not far from here, Haven. I’ve been there before. There’ll be healers there.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she slurred.

“It’s my all-around good nature, I suppose.” He smiled, then sighed. “I’m supposed to be investigating something for the Champion of Kirkwall, but I think saving your life takes priority.”

“It’s just a broken arm, I think I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not taking any chances, princess,” he said, the endearment slipping off his tongue. “Let’s get you to Haven.”


	3. 9:41 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya wakes up. She is not where, or when, she thinks she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I added ALL the chapters, and the fourth should be up relatively soon.

Freya woke to the sound of swords, and thought for a moment she must still be dreaming. She cracked her eyes open just a peek, and saw a man in medieval garb standing by a desk, mixing different liquids together. She must have made some sort of noise, because he turned.

“Good. You’re awake.”

Freya opened her eyes all the way. “Um . . . yeah. What is this place? Where am I? I was in a forest, and my wrist was broken, and there was this man. . . .”

“Ah, Warden Alistair. You’re lucky he came along, or your arm would have been infected for sure. As it is, you’re in Haven.”

“And Alistair is where?” For some reason, she trusted him, and didn’t feel safe without him in the room.

“In the Chantry, with the others. I hear it’s getting quite crowded in that war room.”

“War room,” Freya repeated.

“Yes,” the man said. “I’m Adan. You are. . . ?”

“Freya.”

Adan helped her sit up, and she looked around. She was in a cabin, richly detailed with medieval accoutrements. This had to be a LARP set of some kind. But how had she gotten here, besides been carried in by this Alistair. She’d been at the museum, with the spirit. Her eyes widened. The spirit, and the amulet. Where was it? It had exploded—maybe she’d been teleported somewhere. Not entirely impossible. But to a LARP thing? No way was her luck that good.

“All this is really authentic,” she said, testing the waters. “I don’t mean to break whatever character I’m supposed to be, but I have to compliment you.”

Adan looked at her oddly and sat down on the stool next to the bed. “Can I see your wrist?” he asked.

Freya held out her right hand, which was bandaged. There was a patch of blood soaked through the cloth. It was definitely real blood; she recognized the smell. But even if these people were LARPing, they’d have driven her to a hospital by now.

“Go ahead and change my bandage,” she said, voice deceptively level. “It’ll get infected soon if you don’t.”

Adan nodded. “Know something about healing, do you?”

“A little. I’m first aid certified.”

The door to the cabin opened, and a tall blond man in full armor, complete with sword, entered. “Adan, how is she? Is she—"

“She’s awake, Commander. No thanks to you,” he added under his breath. “You’ve been  _ hovering.” _

“Uh, hi,” she said to him. “Nice sword.”

“What? Oh. Thank you.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Where are you from?” he asked her. “Your accent almost sounds Dalish, but you’re not an elf.”

Freya frowned. No one used the term  _ Dalish _ to mean  _ elves. _ That was racist. “That’s . . . I have a very distant ancestor who was an elf,” she managed, gritting her teeth as Adan worked on her side. “She lived and died in the Dragon Age, though. The rest of my family’s been Fereldan since then. My accent . . . is weird, I know. I was born in Denerim, but spent most of my childhood traveling, so it changes sometimes. I picked up a lot of—wait. Why am I telling you all this?”

“You’re probably a bit delirious from the elfroot,” Adan said with a not-so-hidden smile.

“Is  _ that _ what you’ve been giving me?  _ Elfroot?  _ Don’t you have any other kind of painkiller? Morphine? I’d take  _ Tylenol _ over elfroot.”

The blond man stared at her. “What is that? A potion?”

Freya laughed nervously. “Okay, guys, please drop the LARPing, it’s starting to freak me out. What happened?”

“A Warden named Alistair brought you here, after you apparently—” he cleared his throat,  _ “—fell _ out of a Fade rift.”

“A Fade rift,” Freya said. “I saw one. It engulfed me. . . .”

Adan sighed. “I’m taking care of far too many people who decide going physically into the Fade is a good idea. First Trevelyan, now you—"

“Oh, good, Kate’s here,” Freya sighed. “Please, will you let me talk to her?”

“Talk to who?”

“Kate Trevelyan? You were just talking about her.”

He set his hands on the pommel of his sword. “The only Trevelyan I know is named Hansen.”

Freya’s eyes widened. She  _ knew _ that name, but. . . . “As in, the mage dude who . . . who . . . I can’t remember. I know I got an A on that test about the Inquisition in school. Why can’t I remember what he did? Something about . . . mage rights?”

“Speaking of mage rights,” the blonde said, “what Circle do you come from?”

“Circle? I take Fadeblockers for sensory processing disorder. I’m about as mage-y as you, Mr. Warrior Pants.”

He blushed. He was  _ blushing. _ “Trevelyan said you were a mage.”

“I am. I just can’t use my abilities because I take Fadeblockers. Were you listening?”

“Freya,” Adan said, the use of her name jarring her. “What are Fadeblockers?”

“You know, the medicine? To block your access to the Fade. . . .”

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

The man frowned, turned to Adan. “Can she walk? Leliana wants to see her.”

“I can walk,” Freya said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and nearly kicking Adan in the face. She didn’t care. “I’ve had worse than this.”

Her wrist throbbed, shooting pain up her arm. She didn’t care about that, either. Looking up at the two men, their clothes, her surroundings, the odd knowledge they seemed to have, she suddenly had a thought. It was a crazy thought, a stupid thought, but her writer’s brain warned her not to disregard it so readily.

“What . . . year is it?” she asked, slowly.

“9:41 Dragon,” Adan said. “That demon must have hit you harder than I thought.”


	4. The Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya is from the future. This does not surprise Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! Been dealing with some things and my muse fell into a Fade rift. But it's back now, so have a new chapter!

Freya’s jaw dropped.  _ No way.  _ She’d read things about the time magic used at Redcliffe during the Inquisition, but could it send her back this far? She sighed.  _ I’m about to find out. _

Aching, sore, clutching her arm, she followed the blond man out of the cabin and into a snowy encampment. She shivered. It was cold. Colder than it would get in Denerim, and from the picturesque mountains looming over the horizon she was somewhere in the Frostbacks. The town around her was way too real to be fake. Not even a movie set would have been this historically accurate.

_ Okay, _ she thought.  _ Time travel amulet. Crazy spirit who knows your last name. Stranger things have happened, right? _

The answer, of course, was staring her in the face in the form of a giant hole in the sky. 

She’d read about the Breach, seen artists’ renderings and paintings from museums. Nothing could have captured the sickly green light that poured from the tear in the Veil. It was dormant now, that much she could tell just by looking at it, but it was  _ there,  _ and  _ real,  _ and that scared her to no end. 

It must have showed on her face, because the blond man spoke. “First time you’ve seen it?”

“Sort of,” she said. “It’s different . . . this close up.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Freya didn’t think he meant that to be as gruff as it sounded.

They trudged through a village, past a dwarf by a fire, and up a set of stairs. What looked like a medieval Chantry rose in the background, but it was pristine. Well, as pristine as anything got in the Dragon Age. 

As they walked, Freya realized she was still wearing her Converse, which didn’t go well with snow at all. She also still had on her jeans. That was good. Checking her pockets, she found she still had her notebook and her phone. She felt something else in there as well, and pulled it out to see a clear pill case full of her medication, which included at least two different kinds of antidepressants, as well as her Fadeblockers. She was one hundred percent sure she hadn’t put them in there this morning. 

“Something wrong?” the blond man asked.

She shoved the pill case back in her pocket before he could ask what it was. “Just a little spooked. That thing is . . . big.”

He nodded. “I understand. It’s scared us all.”

“Commander,” a delightfully familiar voice called. “You were supposed to come and get me.”

“I was about to. This is—”

“Alistair, yes, I remember. Thank you. If you hadn’t come along I’d still be out in those woods.”

Alistair beamed. “You’re very welcome, um. . . .” He laughed. “Sorry, I just realized I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Freya.”

“Nice to meet you, Freya. I’m glad I was there to help.”

The commander cleared his throat. “Sister Leliana wants to see you—both of you. Follow me, please.”

“Wait,” Freya said. “What’s  _ your _ name?” 

“It’s Cullen,” he said. “Cullen Rutherford. I command the Inquisition’s army.”

Freya gaped.  _ This _ was Cullen Rutherford? The man she’d spent her childhood—and a good portion of adulthood—obsessing over? He was one of the most fascinating mysteries surrounding the Inquisition, given that no one knew what happened to him; he’d disappeared soon after it had disbanded.

Freya swallowed. “Nice to meet you, Cullen.”

His eyes warmed. “And a pleasure to meet you as well, Freya. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Alistair was looking between them, a weird grin on his face. “Soooo,” he drawled. “To the Chantry?”

“Right,” Cullen said, and turned. 

Alistair and Freya followed him, the latter staring at the commander’s back with a carefully concealed look of awe. As a teen, she’d spent hours poring over documents pertaining to him at the Denerim Historical Society. Most historians thought he had succumbed to lyrium madness, but that didn’t explain the missing pages from his journal after 9:41—this year, she’d remembered Adan saying—or the word on its last:  _ Freya.  _ Her name. It had made her feel somehow connected to it, connected to him. She’d always thought,  _ known _ it was a coincidence. 

Now she wasn’t so sure.

When they reached the chantry, Cullen opened the doors and led them to a pair of women chatting by a door at the very far back. They stopped talking when they saw Freya. One wore a genuinely welcoming expression, while the other’s guarded smile told her to watch out, this one knew something. The latter spoke first, looking Freya up and down, then over her shoulder at Alistair. 

“So this is the woman who fell out of the Fade rift, Alistair?” she asked. Her accent was odd, maybe Orlesian? Freya couldn’t tell. 

“Yes,” Alistair said. “Her name’s Freya.”

The second woman spoke with an Antivan accent. “Allow me to introduce us. I am Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, and this is Sister Leliana.” 

“Hi,” Freya said. 

Josephine continued. “Pardon the abruptness, my lady, but may I ask what your family name is?” 

Freya took a deep breath. “Okay, this is going to sound insane, but before I tell you my last name, I have to tell you something else, and I don’t know if you’re going to believe me. I’m—”

A man who was obviously a scout burst into the chantry. “Sister Leliana! The Herald and the others have returned from Redcliffe. They bring with them a few emissaries of the mage rebellion.”

“Ah, good,” Leliana said. “Send them in, please.” Her eyes were still on Freya.

Soon, there were three more people crowded in the chantry. One of them, the woman, had a disgusted look on her face, while the other two were gossiping conspiratorially about—wait.

“Are you two talking about time magic?” Freya asked. 

They stopped, looked at her. One of them, the lighter skinned of the two, with pale grey eyes, spoke. “Yes. We just came back from the future.”

“It was . . . horrifyingly fascinating,” the one with dark skin and brown eyes said. “You look new. What’s your name?”

“This is Freya. Freya, this is Lord Hansen Trevelyan of Ostwick, Lord Dorian Pavus, and Seeker Cassanda Pentaghast,” Josephine said. “In your absence, my lord, she, too, fell out of a Fade rift.”

The third woman’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I don’t think it was a Fade rift,” Freya said, her brain working a mile a minute. “I think it was more of the time magic.”

There was a chorus of disbelief, except from the first man—Dorian, if she had her names straight. He walked up to her, squinting his eyes. With a flourish of his hand over her face and a bit of light, his frown deepened. 

“This woman  _ is _ from the future,” he said, then rattled off a concise explanation of what happened in Redcliffe. When the stunned silence grew too much, he turned back to her. “Tell me, Freya. What year are you from?”

“14:29 Postmodern. It went Dragon, Renaissance, Industrial, Modern, Postmodern.”

The woman—Cassandra, yes, that  would make sense—spoke. “If she is from the future, she could tell us if the mages can seal the Breach.”

Freya snapped her fingers, pointing at Cassandra. “Yes! The mages! The mages you use to seal the Breach!”

“So we do seal it?’ Her expression was full of guarded hope. 

Suddenly Freya felt uncertain. “I don’t remember.” 

Cassandra scoffed. 

She felt like crying. “It feels like it’s just on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t remember if you do. My instinct says you do but I just don’t know for sure. I’m—I’m sorry.”

Alistair noticed. “Hey, it’s okay. You hit your head, you broke your arm. Let’s let you get some rest.”

Hansen Trevelyan—the man who now was very obviously Kate’s ancestor—walked over to her. “Here,” he said, holding out his hand. “I can fix that arm for you.”

“Thanks,” she said, and placed her bandaged wrist in his care. A glowing green light and a sprinkle of magic later, she was unwrapping the bandage and flexing her wrist. 

“Careful. You may want to ease off of it for an hour or two, ice it. Other than that, you should be fine.” He gave her a lopsided smile, making him look just like Kate. 

“Thanks,” she repeated. 

“Are there Circles in the future?” he asked. 

Freya blinked. That was an odd question. “No,” she said, telling him the truth. “There are no Circles. The closest thing is the College of Enchanters, but that’s a school, and not even a boarding one, so.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he beamed, patting her hand. “Good.”

And he whisked back to his place by Dorian and Cassandra, unmistakable tears in his eyes. Dorian pat his arm. 

Freya shivered. The door to the Chantry had opened again, someone slipping out. The clothes she was wearing were not meant for the Frostbacks, and her adrenaline was starting to wear off. 

Leliana noticed. “We should get you something else to wear,” she said. “Whatever clothes you have in the future, they are not suitable for Haven.” She tutted. “Those  _ shoes.” _

Freya gave a pout that made Alistair do a double take. “I like my Converse.”

“They are hideous. Come with me. I’ll find something better for you.”

And she beckoned Freya to a room off to the right. She had little choice but to follow, suddenly connecting that Leliana was the Inquisition’s spymaster. It didn’t really matter. The secret was out, she was from the future. It was only a matter of time before she started remembering things again.

But what could she tell them without contaminating the timeline? And what was more important: saving the most lives or keeping history the same? She remembered Cullen well enough, and if she were honest with herself, she really didn’t want him to die. She didn’t want any of them to die. 

What could her presence mean? Was it supposed to happen? Was it the Maker? Was it simply an accident, a fluke of time and space? 

She shook her head, the door to Leliana’s room closing behind them. 

_ I guess I’ll find out. _


End file.
